


Tea For Two

by FeralCreed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1300948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/pseuds/FeralCreed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John deals with Sherlock's death, but maybe the great detective isn't really gone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea For Two

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday to a friend of mine! This one's for you.

“Hey, Sherlock. You need to eat something. I'm making tea.” John set two cups on two plates as he waited for a reply. Nothing. Living with the world's only consulting detective was not easy. Between finding body parts in the refrigerator, experiments on the table, and criminals in the flat, John had been almost exhausted. The body parts and criminals, at least, had stopped two years ago. “Sherlock?” John looked in the living room and was on his way to the bedroom when he chanced to look out the window at the street below.

Time slowed and stopped. The world turned black and white. Crimson stained the sidewalk below. A dark blue coat with the collar turned up. Dishevelled black hair. Sightless grey eyes. “Oh, God, no,” John whispered, bowing his head.

He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious. But when he awoke, it was dark outside and the lights in the flat were off. He was asleep in the chair, with something draped over him like a blanket, something he was clutching tightly in both hands. Blinking sleepily, he tried to make sense of the coat he was holding. A dark red ribbon of dried blood stained the right shoulder and collar. John held on even more tightly, and his tears flowed down the river of blood as he waited desperately for the dawn.

 

The late afternoon soon slanted gently through the tree limbs. The grass was green and even, comfortable to sit on. Birds sang in the perfectly gardened trees and a hedgehog dozed in the shade of a clump of flowers in a manicured flower bed. Uniform stones ran in perfect lines across the lawn. A high wall protected the sanctity of the graveyard from the outside world.

“Your tombstone's black,” John said to the grave marker, standing in front of it with his hands clasped. “Obsidian, actually. Imported from Arabia. And the letters are a kind of grey color. There's a reason, you know. Your hair was black. And your eyes were grey. This is all I really have left of you. So I wanted it to remind me of you. They way you looked. And there were times you were about as friendly as that stone. Sometimes it drove me mad. But I always wanted you back more than anything. For days, I hoped that you would come back to me somehow. You never did. I guess I never really forgave you for that.”

There was a sound in the grass behind him, and John instantly fell silent, feeling foolish that he'd been caught talking to a gravestone. Footsteps approached him from behind, and he wondered if it was someone he knew. “J-John,” whispered a hoarse voice, its owner clearing his throat.

“Yes?” John asked casually, turning to see who was addressing him. It was a tall figure, in a black suit and with a pair of sunglasses and black fedora hiding his face. His face was turned toward his shoes as he reached up with a black-gloved hand to remove his glasses. Then he looked up, taking the hat off and holding it loosely in his fingers before letting it fall to the ground. John stared in shock. The sharp cheekbones, the black hair, the grey eyes.

Sherlock wanted to ask for forgiveness, but he was voiceless, pain etched openly on his face. Finally, he spoke, in a voice so low it could barely be heard. “Forgive me. I-I didn't want to. I had to.”

“Sherlock,” John said, looking down for a moment before looking at Sherlock, trying to keep himself under control. “I never thought I'd see you again.” The raw truth of his words made him lose control. “How the damned hell could you do that?” he screamed, the echoes of his voice scaring away the birds. He balled his fist and struck out, knocking Sherlock onto his back in the grass. “I thought you were dead! How could you?!”

Sherlock took a deep breath, closed his eyes, opened them, shook his head. “I had to,” he said. “Moriarty couldn't kill you too. My life was part of the game, but yours wasn't mine to risk. I wanted to be back sooner, but I've been working too hard to come and-”

John cut short his explanation. “I don't want to hear it. You left me alone, Sherlock. Don't think you can just come back in and start, start, I don't know, leaving body parts in the fridge and taking weird cases. Because I, I, I, I need you. Oh, God, Sherlock, I owed you so much and I never got to even say goodbye. You couldn't even let me say goodbye?” Deep pain, remorse, and loss coloured his voice.

Sherlock stood up, brushing his palms together. “I'm sorry, John,” he said. “I really am.”

“Shall we go back to the flat?” John asked. “Mrs Hudson's gone out,” he explained half an hour later, unlocking the front door of 221B. “I haven't really touched the flat since you, I mean, I thought you died. Do you want anything to drink? When's the last time you ate?”

“I haven't eaten in several days. Food is boring, John. I was working on a case.” Sherlock removed his coat and threw it on the couch.

“Okay, Sherlock. You need to eat something. I'm making tea.” John set two cups on two plates as he waited for a reply. Nothing. Struck by a sudden thought, he went into the living room to make sure his friend was still there. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, coming in from the bedroom in his normal attire. “Ah, tea ready? I think I might do for a cup.”

Smiling to himself, John picked up a packet of tea and started making tea for two.


End file.
